


as hungry as the sea

by lacecat



Series: oceans away [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alcohol, Ficlet, Gift Giving, M/M, Minor Violence, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, consider this as close as a holiday fic you can get with the universe lol, they give each other gifts bc what better way to show emotions than presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:50:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: In which Silver is a bit of a romantic, and Flint cares.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Twelfth Night, Orsino in Act II, Scene IV:
> 
> "Alas, their love may be called appetite,  
> No motion of the liver, but the palate,  
> That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;  
> But mine is all as hungry as the sea,  
> And can digest as much."

•••

 

 

After surviving the amputation of his leg, surviving sailing into a hurricane, surviving being imprisoned by ex-slaves and maroons, surviving the fucking _British Navy_ , Silver was half-convinced that whatever higher power that dropped him in this life had also made him invincible.

 

Perhaps this, however, was the final ordeal before death, Silver thinks to himself, as he desperately chokes down more rum-tinged water as if the liquid alone will cool him off.

 

They’re in the middle of a brutal heat wave on Maroon Island. Flint had directed the Walrus to the island after one of their skirmishes with Rogers’ forces, anchoring the ship last night for repairs and supplies. It’s barely midday, but the sun above him is already radiating waves of unforgiving heat. It doesn’t help that there is no breeze either, and the beach Flint chose for them to load supplies onto the longboats from has no trees near the waterline. 

 

Silver had gone to shore to oversee some of the crew prepare the longboats to carry the new cannons, but now he regrets his actions, wishing for the cool, damp air below the deck. 

 

The captain himself had gone to the village alone, leaving them to wait in the baking sun, that bastard. Now they were waiting for him to return, though unofficially the crew had stopped trying to load the cannons in the interest of getting out from the sunlight.

 

Silver lets himself slump down a little further from where he’s sitting on the sand. He’s away from the men, as they seek shelter from the heat under the sparse trees near the edge of the beach. But from the faint swearing he could hear from his position, the small patches of shade seem to do little to soothe the heat, just as he suspected. 

 

Raising his bottle, Silver is about to dump the slightly stale water over his head when a voice interrupts his motion. 

 

“Don’t do that. You’ll need to keep as much water inside your body as possible to stay hydrated,” Flint says from behind him, his footsteps muffled by the sand. 

 

Silver considers dumping the water over his head anyways, but opts for a squinty glare, tilting his head back until the captain comes into view. “What one needs and what one wants is rarely the same,” he says. He lowers his bottle anyways, because Flint is a correct bastard, and finishes the liquid in a gulp. 

 

Flint slants another look at him. “Jump in the water if you must.”

 

“What, and lose any shred of credibility that Long John Silver has?” Silver replies, aiming for humor and missing as he sees Flint’s expression darken. 

 

Soon after that first fight in the war that they started, a night on the Walrus _,_ Flint and Silver had gotten drunk together, clinking their glasses before they eventually resorted to passing a bottle or two back and forth. 

 

In the dim light of the captain’s cabin, his eyes a dark green not unlike the bottle he held, Flint had told him that if there was something he was genuinely sorry for because of this war, it was making Silver the villain. Putting that weight on his shoulders, making his name synonymous with destruction and fear. 

 

Silver had drank more wine rather than answering. He didn’t know how to say that each time he saw a man turn white from the name Long John Silver was said, a dark thrill ran through him. That now there was darkness coursing through his veins, and he _liked_ it. He didn’t want Flint to see him for the monster he had become, for the monster he wanted to be. 

 

Instead, he focused on the way the candlelight softened Flint’s face, until he could barely see the freckles that peppered his jaw, the clavicle revealed through a tear in his shirt. Perhaps it was the wine made his muscles loose, his gaze daring as he looked up from staring at the column of Flint’s neck to meet him right in the eye, Flint’s mouth parting slightly before slamming shut once more. 

 

Flint had gotten up soon after that, excusing himself almost hurriedly to walk above deck, and Silver had left soon afterwards, not one to drink alone in the captain’s cabin. 

 

While Silver is briefly lost in the hazy memory, Flint sinks down in the sand next to Silver. “You’re not used to the heat, even after all this time?” Flint asks, his tone curious instead of belittling. 

 

“And you are?” Silver says, incredulous. “I’m not the only one who notices this hellish weather. The men can barely move in this heat.”

 

The captain shrugs. “I’ve always found the heat to be more bearable than the cold. It would rain for days in London during the winter. The chill always seemed to seep right into my bones, until I’d forgotten what warmth was.” 

 

He pauses for the briefest of moments, enough so Silver’s head turns for his next words. “Miranda used to say that one of the reasons I was a Navy man was to escape the cold Northern climate. So that I could go to faraway tropical places, just to feel the sun year round on my face.” 

 

Silver lets out a quiet huff. He knows he needs to be careful with his reply, careful to acknowledge the information that Flint’s just given him. “I understand her rationale,” Silver says, keeping his answer short. “I daresay even this weather must have been better than London’s.”

 

He can feel Flint’s gaze on the side of his face, so he just has to turn his head to meet Flint’s eyes. “I think you get more freckles the longer you’re in the sun. They look good, though,” is what comes out instead, because _what_.

 

Before Silver can scramble to say something else, to cover up his slip before Flint stabs him or something, Flint goes pink.

 

Silver is caught off guard, and he can only watch in fascination as the color blooms on his cheeks, at first faint, but then assuredly present beneath the freckles. 

 

“Doesn’t that happen to everyone?” Flint answers, his gruff tone at odds with his complexion, as he looks away from Silver. No doubt to try to prevent Silver from noticing, which is impossible because Silver tries in that moment to memorize the sight so that he can recall it for the rest of his days.

 

And that, well. It should be more of a revelation, that he’s harbored these sorts of feelings towards Flint. Towards _James_. But Silver is nothing if not adaptable. What’s surprising is how he’s processing this new information, that now that he’s seen this rosy color appear on Flint’s cheeks, he’s reminded of a quiet evening, clouds edged with the same color, promising fair weather tomorrow. 

 

“Not me,” Silver says, still caught off guard, as Flint scowls at the sand. “I just burn if I’m in the sun for too long. With this heat, I’ll no doubt be red all over by tomorrow. Not all of us just sprout freckles wherever the sun touches us, you know.” 

 

Flint glances back at him at that. The color on his face is still visible, but now he looks more contemplative than surly. He reaches into his coat, and Silver is genuinely convinced he’s about to be stabbed for a moment, but Flint pulls out a bottle instead. 

 

He takes a swig, as Silver watches his throat move. “Tell the men to start loading the cannons,” Flint tells him. “I’ll be back shortly. I want us ready to leave on the ship by nightfall.”

 

He gets up, then, brushing sand off of his coat. As Flint leaves, Silver can only watch him go. 

 

“You could’ve given me some of that water,” he mutters instead, before getting up to relay the order to the men.

 

 

•••

 

 

They manage to roll the cannons onto the longboats. Silver directs their motions, holding the boat steady as they load the weight, giving appropriately sympathetic glances when the hot metal burns their palms. 

  
All but one of the longboats have rowed back to the Walrus by the time Flint returns. He pays no attention to the men’s grumbles, even as Silver shoots a glance at him. The captain gets on the boat and sits across from Silver, even check to make sure the cannon is secure where it’s tied before ordering the men to row them back to the ship.

 

Once they’re back on board, Flint heads to his cabin to plot a chart with DeGroot, while Silver gives the orders to prepare the ship for sail. Once the cannons have been loaded and are secure, the men working smoothly and running around the deck, it’s nearly the evening.

 

Finally, Silver sees DeGroot slip out from the captain’s cabin, and he takes the opportunity to walk right into the room.

 

Flint’s sitting at his desk, rolling up a map, when he looks up to see Silver approaching him. “We’re sticking close to the coast. DeGroot thinks the winds will be slow enough to be able to continue the repairs while we’re still making way.”

 

“Good,” Silver says, standing right at the desk, then, “Where did you go?” 

 

Flint’s hands still, and he sets the parchment down. What Silver doesn’t expect him to do, however, is rise, reach into the side of his coat, and pull out a small pot. “Here,” Flint says, reaching out to drop it into Silver’s hand. 

  
  
Silver looks at the pot, then at Flint, then back to the pot. “What is it?” 

 

“It’s a salve, from some plant found on the island,” Flint says. “It’s supposed to be cooling. For burns.” 

 

Silver doesn’t know quite how to respond to that. “Thank you?”Then it clicks. “Is this just because I said that I burn in the sun?” 

 

Flint scowls, and that’s an expression Silver is more than used to seeing, usually before someone ends up being injured. “I don’t want you distracted from your duties by some minor annoyance.” 

 

He smirks, then, and Silver’s stomach twists in a not- unpleasant way. “After all, you were complaining about the heat so much.” 

 

“Fuck you,” Silver replies, without too much heat. “I’m not some fair-skinned lady.” 

 

“I know that,” Flint says steadily. For not the first time that day, Silver is without a response. He remember’s Flint’s raw expression over a fire in the dark, telling him that he loved a man, that he was fighting a war in a man’s name. The air seems to grow thick in his silence, and he can’t break eye contact with Flint. 

 

Silver swallows, sees Flint’s gaze drop, and he’s suddenly both thankful and furious at the fact that there is a desk between them. 

 

He doesn’t know what to do, how to react to this sudden turn of events, so he unscrews the lid to the pot, brings it up to his nose and sniffs. “Smells terrible.”

 

Flint doesn’t smile, but the mood seems to dissipates. “See if I ever give you anything again,” he says, and Silver laughs. 

 

As he leaves, taking the pot with him, he’s not sure if he’s glad or disappointed nothing happened between them in that moment.

 

That night, Silver spreads a bit of the salve across the tops of his cheekbones, where the skin feels tender and tight from being in the sun. He nearly moans at the instant relief it gives. 

 

That bastard. 

 

•••

 

 

Silver always cleans his sword carefully. He had Joji teach him one day how to do a proper job of it, show him how to buff the metal until the dirt and blood were a distant memory, the edge already razor sharp with a whetstone, how to slide a rag with just enough oil over the surface until it gleamed. 

 

After all, the sword had become far more useful since he started to use the crutch. While a gun required steadying, something that wasn’t his strong suite due to the lack of leg, a sword was easier. He keeps the sword in top condition, just like for this battle, where they’re ambushing some of Rogers’ forces in town. 

 

Which is why it’s absolutely surprising to Silver when he plunges the sword into the chest of the British regular in front of him, and the blade completely snaps off from the handle. 

 

He spends half a second staring at the handle still in his hand, then at the soldier in front of him who’s gurgling blood where he’s fallen on the broken blade. As if he can sense it, Silver ducks, only to feel the breeze of another sword glide over his head in a close miss.

 

He’s without a weapon, as he turns to face the other regular who’s come up from behind him. Silver opts to throw himself at the man instead, pushing aside the crutch to wrestle him to the ground, the sword knocked out of the other man’s hand. 

 

The regular is surprised, but manages to gain the upper hand when his foot collides painfully with Silver’s stump, and he takes care of Silver’s momentary stunned gasp of pain to flip them over, grab his sword and prepare to bring it down on Silver’s throat.

 

Only, he doesn’t get any further, as a bullet hole appears in his chest. The regular slumps down, already dead, and Silver can feel blood ooze out onto his own chest. 

 

Then Flint’s there, beard matted in blood, gun still smoking from where he’s fired it. He hoists the dead man off of Silver, and Silver gets up shakily, grappling for his crutch. 

 

It seems that the rest of the regulars have been dealt with, the men picking up their swords and guns from the dead bodies. The townspeople have long left, some of the doors to the buildings around them ajar in their haste to flee the carnage. 

 

He turns to Flint, who looks absolutely furious.

 

Silver’s expecting a rant over the British soldiers they’ve just massacred, but then Flint surprises him.

  
“Where the fuck is your sword?” Flint spits out instead, and Silver looks incredulously at him. 

 

“What the- it broke!”

 

“What do you mean, _it broke_?”

 

Silver gestures to the dead man behind Flint, with the blade still sticking out. “Exactly what it sounds like?”  


 

“And you had no pistol, no knife?” Flint snarls, taking a step forward. 

 

“Excuse me if I don’t carry a fucking arsenal at all times! I didn’t expect-”

 

“That’s right, you didn’t expect, you didn’t _think_ ,” the captain interrupts, his eyes flashing, and Silver would be shocked if there wasn’t anger building in his gut, as Flint takes another menacing step forward. The men around them disperse hurriedly, as if to avoid overhearing the conversation. Which may be a moot point, given that Flint is practically shouting, and Silver is not stepping down. 

 

“What the fuck are you on about?” 

  
“What I’m on about,” Flint grits out, and something in his tone is off, for Silver pauses in his anger to look at him closely, “is that _your lack of judgement_ nearly got you killed. You need to do better-”  


 

“I’m not looking to get killed,” Silver bites back, taking a step forward to match Flint, “Unlike you, I actually have a regard for my own life.”

 

Flint flinches, but it does the trick, and he stops advancing. He looks at Silver, not saying anything, but the wild look in his eyes doesn’t die down. Silver recognizes the look. He’s seen it in Flint’s eyes when he returned from Charleston. He saw it in Anne Bonny’s eyes when she thought of a life without Jack Rackham.

 

Flint doesn’t say anything, even as Silver sees the rage, the desperation, the fear in his eyes. Silver doesn’t say anything either, which is why Flint turns on his heel then, leaving him behind in the dusty town square.

 

 

•••

 

 

It’s nightfall by the time Silver comes back onto the ship. He glances around at the men, who seem split between grateful to see him, and nervously casting glances at the closed door of the captain’s quarters. 

 

Silver takes a deep breath, tucks the package under his coat, and opens the door without knocking.

 

Flint is sitting in his chair, a bottle in his hand, but it looks mostly full. He looks up sharply at Silver’s entrance, his eyes angry but more restrained than before. “Leave me alone,” Flint growls out. 

 

Silver chooses to ignore him, closing the door behind him and sliding the lock home. “No,” Silver says, taking steps forward until he’s around Flint’s desk, standing in front of where Flint is seated.

 

Flint stands up abruptly, slamming the bottle on the desk. “Damn you, Silver, you-” 

 

Silver cuts him off by pressing his mouth over Flint’s. It’s hard, urgent, as his lips slide over Flint’s. The other man is absolutely still under his lips, even as Silver tilts his head slightly. 

 

He breaks contact when Flint doesn’t move, gives a frustrated huff. “I’m not going to leave you,” Silver says, looking right into his eyes, “James.” and he can see Flint’s pupils grow. 

 

Flint’s hands begin to move, and for a moment, Silver is fully expecting to be punched, or at least pushed away, but then Flint is pulling the front of his jacket into another kiss, their teeth clacking together. 

 

This time, his mouth moves more under Silver’s, and Silver opens his mouth with a groan into the kiss. Flint tastes like the rum he’s been drinking, but also of salt, and blood from a split lip curtesy of a regular from the earlier battle. 

 

Silver’s teeth pull at Flint’s lower lip, then releases it with a soft sound, and Flint moans. Silver clutching the side of his face, breaking away so that he can breath, and he can feel Flint’s hot breath on his lips as well. 

 

He doesn’t know what to say, so instead, Silver reaches into his coat and pulls out the book from where it was tucked away. Flint’s eyes drag away from mouth to look at the worn cover, then back at Silver. 

 

“You got me a book?” Flint asks, quietly. 

 

“ _Twelfth Night_. Found it on one of the tavern shelves,” Silver says. “Figured you could do with some lighter material.”

 

Flint’s hand comes up to clasp over the cloth bound cover of the book, his fingers brushing over the back of Silver’s hand. His eyes are serious, as he takes the book from Silver.

 

“Journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man's son doth know,” Flint says, when Silver doesn’t speak. 

 

“You’ve read it?” 

 

“I’ve never owned a copy,” Flint says, every exhale warm on Silver’s face. He doesn’t need to say thank you, not with the way that he’s looking at Silver, his eyes dark and hungry, that look alone enough to satisfy Silver for many nights ahead. 

 

He huffs, bringing a hand to curl around Flint’s jaw, thrilling in the easy touch. “It’s not because you got me that salve.” 

  
“I figured,” Flint says. Silver knows he doesn’t need to apologize, not with how Flint tilts his head every so slightly so that Silver can feel the rough brush of his stubble against his palm.

 

“I-” Silver begins, but Flint is drawing him into another easy kiss, and he figures out quickly that Flint knows what he was going to say. 

 

Flint kisses like he’s drowning in Silver, his hands coming up and around Silver’s neck, fingers lightly pressing into the base of his scalp, scratching slightly so that Silver takes another tiny step forward until he’s pressed from hip to shoulder to Flint. He can feel his heartbeat, pounding through Flint’s chest from where he’s pressed up against his ribcage, until he can’t tell where his heartbeat starts and Flint’s begins. 

 

It’s good, as Silver presses kisses onto Flint’s jaw, his eyelids, until Flint’s drawing him to the bed in the corner where they can strip each other of clothing. Silver tries to count the freckles on his body with his tongue, and Flint wraps his legs around him, pulling him closer and closer until there’s not even enough room for air between them. They thrust against each other, easy as waves crashing onto a beach, until Silver's coming with  __Flint's name on his lips, and Flint bites down hard enough on Silver's collarbone to leave a mark, that makes Silver shudder against his skin.

 

Afterwards, the bed is too small for them to lie side by side, so they’re curled into each other comfortably. Silver stares at the curve of Flint’s ear from where his head is a warm weight on his chest, until he falls asleep.

 

•••

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi or send me prompts @ jamesbarlow.tumblr.com! :)


End file.
